


Groundhog Daybreak

by druidforhire



Category: Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: F/M, last loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25134451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druidforhire/pseuds/druidforhire
Summary: She kind of knew what she was expecting to deal with on February 2nd—the horror stories from her coworkers at the Channel 5 station had painted a vague but passable picture of a man in her head who she could tell she’d really have to work her producer magic on in order to corral him into doing the broadcast, and doing it right. She expected the handsome but insufferable Phil Connors. The charming but rude Phil Connors. The humorous but condescending Phil Connors.(The final day, from Rita's perspective.)
Relationships: Phil Connors/Rita Hanson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Groundhog Daybreak

She kind of knew what she was expecting to deal with on February 2nd—the horror stories from her coworkers at the Channel 5 station had painted a vague but passable picture of a man in her head who she could tell she’d _really_ have to work her producer magic on in order to corral him into doing the broadcast, and doing it right. She expected the handsome but insufferable Phil Connors. The charming but rude Phil Connors. The humorous but condescending Phil Connors. She'd worked with him before on a flood story, but that thing had been so hectic to organize and put together that she’s pretty sure the only words they exchanged that weren't work-related was three sentences about the in-station coffee. 

She knew what she was expecting, but she didn’t know what she was gonna get instead. She got Phil Connors with a smile built out of fondness instead of plastic and smarm, greeting Rita with a warm memory (he remembered her name! How nice). Phil Connors helping Larry the cameraman set up. Phil Connors, more than happy to be here on a cold overcast day in Punx, PA, the town she thought he especially hated so much. And then he gets up there in front of the camera and waxes some weird poetry for the broadcast. It’s really not what she was expecting from a weatherman. Especially not Phil Connors. It’s weird, but… touching. That’s interesting. She hadn’t pegged him to be interested in funny esoteric nerd stuff, like the physics of music, or… angelfish ovaries? But it was sweet. It was… really sweet.

“Wow,” she says.

“Wow, Phil,” comes Larry’s voice.

“Very… interesting.”

Phil looks back and forth between the two of them. “Aw, hey, thanks guys.”

“Fibonacci?” Rita asks. 

“I know…” He gets this funny bashful look on his face as he hands her back the mic. “Sort of a flawed analogy, but I’m workin’ on it—”

“No, no. I mean, they all told me you would be an—…” Rita stops short. She senses something flicker across Phil’s face as he inclines his head. “I mean, it’s just not what I expected.” Break it with a weak laugh. 

He smiles knowingly and turns away, but doesn’t look affronted for it (thank god), more like he’s off to wander. But she doesn’t want to just leave their conversation off at that. Rita pipes up, “Hey, you wanna go grab a cup of coffee? Or something, before we head back in the van?”

And that gives him pause. He turns back to look at her. He's all surprised for some reason—it’s a cute look on him—and steps towards her with an “Oh,” tumbling a bit on trying to get something out in response ( _man,_ they’re not great at... whatever this is), and then the tower bells chime, and then he says, "Ah, I'm... I'm not sure I have time. Um..."

“Oh, uh, no big deal.” Rita feels a stab of exasperated disappointment in herself as all those coworker stories about Phil start to come crashing back down. She clutches her clipboard. Maybe they were all a little right.

But Phil stutters again: “No, no, but—but—thank—thank you. For asking. That makes me… very happy.” He pauses and nods. “Maybe another time, huh?” 

“... Sure.” Why not?

“‘Kay. I’ll see you later.”

A thought comes to her suddenly just as he’s moving away. He says he can’t, but what else is there for him to do in Punxsutawney? It’s a nice town, but it’s not exactly New York City, and she kind of still has to keep track of her weatherman. "But—I'm sorry, um—where are you going?"

“Oh, I just have some errands to run.” He makes a cute little hurrying motion with his hands. 

She blinks. “Errands? Here?”

“Yeah, why wait?” Pauses, meets her eyes. And: _“Où sont les neiges d'antan?_ Am I right? _”_

_Where are the snows of yesteryear?_ Phil pulls out some fucking French poetry and oh, man, fuck, he knows this shit? It hits her how much she’d love to talk about it with someone outside of uni, someone else who is actually interested in this stuff that she studied in college. Someone else in the real world who cares about it as much as she does. “You know French poetry…?”

But he’s not looking at her. In half a second the chime rings one last time, and Phil is off like a bullet, careening down the slush-covered streets. God knows where he’s going. Rita just hopes he doesn’t slip and tear his ACL or something.

  
  


* * *

  
  


After it was announced that every road out of Punxsutawney was closed due to a freak blizzard surrounding the town (“ _like a blizzard donut!”)_ and she realized that it meant that the team would be stuck here until tomorrow, Rita had gone around looking for Phil to let him know. She cursed herself out for never getting his number so she could text him or something, but checking her reception, she’s not sure it would have gone through. She should have just gotten out of him where he was going before he took off.

So she finds herself on some little bench somewhere nice and quiet where she can just watch the festivities wheel by. They’re fun, don’t get her wrong, but you can only throw rings at bottles or darts at balloons for so long before you’ve gotta just sit down. And besides, she’s… been thinking.

About Phil. (God dammit.)

There’s really something about him, isn’t there? Of course he’s pretty. He’s the face of Channel 5 weather. But just being pretty doesn’t warrant nervousness around him, or watching so closely as he makes all these little expressive hand gestures, or looking at how the light falls on his nose and jumps over his eyes. It’s not just that. It’s… everything about him. Everything he does that gives away part of who he is. The Fibonacci. The poetry. The gestures. The way he runs and how his coat goes flying behind him, the way he tilts his head and smiles all warm like fresh laundry or softened weathered leather. The way he remembered her name even though they’d barely talked the one time they glancingly worked together some years back.

She’s getting really far into her head. She oughta write this down. Rita sighs and pulls out her little journal, feeling the worn cover, and pulls out a pen. _February 2nd. First remote broadcast, GHD, in Punx, PA._

_Working with Phil Connors._

Her train of thought is immediately broken as Phil comes sprinting up to her. She immediately perks up. “Oh, hey—! There you are! What have you been—hey, sit down...”

His chest is heaving as he wheezes out, “I got you… chili…” and hands her a tray of assorted cups of chili. Did he sprint all the way from there to this hill? 

“Chili? For me?” She takes it from his hands as he doubles over with one hand propped on the back of the bench and he hacks his lungs out, gasping. “You brought me chili from the cookoff…”

“Yep,” comes his strangled reply.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He straightens, breath clearing. “I’m… oh, I just can’t seem to retain…” he waggles a hand in front of his chest, “... cardio fitness.” 

Well, at least he seems alright now. Rita raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, I read that if you exercise a little bit every day, you—”

“—Yeah, you’d think,” he laughs. 

“Oh—so I guess you heard about the blizzard?”

It takes Phil a moment before realization straightens his posture. “Oh! Oh, yeah, the roads are all closed.”

Rita laughs. “You know, I was looking for you. I…” (Phil makes a gesture to himself, like, _me?_ Yes, you, who else?) “Thought I lost my weatherman.”

“Ha. No. I’m not going anywhere.”

They only get in one more smile at each other before the town’s bells chime. “Seeya!” 

He starts to bolt. Where the hell is he going? He’s already a couple yards off before Rita calls out, “H—hey, now what?”

“Busy day! Careful with number four and number seven. Spicy!”

She has him right here.

“Phil!” she hollers again before he can run away, standing up. But something freezes her when he turns to look back. She ought to tell him something right now, before he disappears again for the rest of the day and nothing even happens, she ought to chase this thought somehow, and yet…

Rita balks. Smiles. “Thanks for lunch.”

Phil grins all silly and broad, turns, and goes careening down the hill.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Honestly, maybe the blizzard was a blessing. It was a fantastic way to just take a day off and enjoy the festival without actually using any vacation days or seeming like she’s slacking off. Although, it would have been nicer if Phil were with her, instead of running around town doing god knows what.

No use in dwelling. She’s excited for the banquet, but she’s trying to warm up in the bar first. Rita’s basking in its central heating and the dark blue of nightfall shining through its windows, rubbing heat back into her frozen toes. Curse her penchant for wearing fun but ultimately inappropriate socks.

_“In’t he cute?”_ Buster calls to the bartender as he peers into Punxsutawney Phil’s cage. “Lookat those teeth, lookat ‘em! See that, Billy? He’s smilin’ at me!”

He straightens and puts his hat back on, laying a hand on the cage. “Okay, I guess we’re off to the banquet. Anyone else?”

Rita laughs. “Maybe when my toes thaw out.”

“That’s what the dancin’s for!”

“Seeya, Buster!” Billy calls as Buster leaves the bar and heads further inside to the banquet.

“Greetings, greetings!” calls a voice from the door as a couple walks in. 

“Did you get his number?” says the man with her, whom Rita assumes is her partner.

“No! He just… changed the tire and left.”

“Weathermen don’t change tires!” he says, passing Rita as they head inside.

“Well, this one did!”

Rita pauses. Weathermen? … Does Punxsutawney have a weather station? It… that can’t be—?

Another couple walks in, still dressed in marching band regalia. The bartender strides over. “Hey, Debbie!”

“Billy, Billy, look!” the woman squeals, and shows off something big and glittery sat right on her finger. “I’m _engaged!”_

Wow, on Groundhog Day! How nice, Rita thinks. She turns over to face them and sidelines herself in on the conversation.

“Wow,” Billy says. “Is that a diamond?”

“No, that’s just a doorknob,” says her sheepish partner. Aw. Kid looks like a bashful dork.

“Yeah. It’s a doorknob,” Debbie admits, then turns and grasps her new fiancé’s hands. “To my heart!”

Dork kid’s face breaks into glee and affection as Billy calls over his shoulder, “Hey, congratulations.”

“So what’s in the envelope?” Dork kid says, already opening it up even as Debbie replies.

“It’s a wedding gift from Forecaster Phil himself!”

“He’s like, my best bud.

(Phil?) Rita turns and asks, “Wait, Phil Connors?”

But they don’t hear her. They’re preoccupied with what’s inside, which is apparently something about _Wrestlemania_ that they both get more pumped about than she would’ve thought possible from the two of them. 

And then just like that, they walk off. She’s so occupied trailing after the remains of their conversation as they head inside ( _“How did he know?” “What do you mean? He’s Forecaster Phil,”)_ that she doesn’t notice the next two people walk in.

“Hey, Rita!” comes Larry’s voice. She whips around and finds relief in seeing the face of a coworker of hers, but she can barely get out a word in reply before an old woman holding a big gift box on her other side calls her name.

“Rita?” She laughs. “That is perfect! He told me you would be at the bar.”

Rita blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m Mabel Lancaster. Oh, here!” She scurries over to her and hands her the giant gift box, putting on the bar table beside her. “He asked me to bring this over to ya. He is _so nice._ He fixed my coffee machine!”

_Fixed a coffee machine?_ “You mean— _Phil Connors?_ ”

Mabel nods enthusiastically. 

“Hey, Rita, check it out!” Larry opens his coat to reveal a gaudily patterned but still rather nice-looking green button down shirt that she’s pretty sure wasn’t the one he had on earlier today. He takes off his jacket as he talks. “Phil helped me pick out this shirt. It’s so me.” 

Is this what he’s been doing all day? What in god’s name…? “Where—where is he?” Rita urges. 

Billy says, “You mean Phil Connors? I think he’s already inside.”

“He is?”

“Let’s get this party started!” Mabel cheers. Larry takes her arm and they both head inside, leaving her alone in the bar. 

What…

Rita hurriedly moves the gift box onto her lap and takes off the lid. Sitting inside are two white boots, lined with fluffy feathers on every inch above the heel, and it’s the most fantastically gaudy disco shit she’s ever had. How Phil managed to get his hands on something like these, or even how he guessed that she liked them, or even _why_ he bothered to buy these for her, she has no idea, but… 

Rita’s always wanted a pair of these.

No wonder he was on a fucking death sprint. _My god,_ she thinks as something warm spins in her chest, _he really didn’t waste a second of the day._

  
  


* * *

  
  


Rita spends a lot of the banquet staring at Phil onstage. 

This, ordinarily, for any other man, for any other occasion, should be embarrassing. No one is supposed to start feeling like this in one day. She and Phil have barely even exchanged words; all she knows are the heartfelt speeches he made at Gobbler’s Knob, the chili he got her, and the fact that today he decided to sprint around town and commit a hundred little miracles for a place that she was told he hated. And now here he is at the banquet, fucking shredding it on the keyboard with a slick pair of shades planted right on his face.

So she’s staring. Sue her.

Nevermind the party and dancing going around her. She loves the brilliant social atmosphere, and normally in parties like these she’d even get up there and jam out herself, but that’s not what she wants tonight. Tonight, Rita is leaning against a shadowy wall in the back near the exit that goes back into the bar, wearing her new boots, and just… staring.

She watches the bachelor auction start. The bids for a dance with Phil start rolling in. She watches as the prices go higher and higher as people eagerly step into the ring. It’s good that Phil has competition, don’t get her wrong, it’s what he deserves, but she was hoping to be able to bid and not have to make a big show of it; that she’d only have to propose a modest amount, and not look desperate for a man in front of an entire town. But they keep going, and Rita gets the feeling that this is her one chance. She already let him slip once, when he brought her chili. She’s not going to make that mistake again.

Rita creeps to the edge of the dance floor. Pressure starts to wind up in her chest, getting more and more ready to snap and burst with every raise of the bid, every crank of the wheel on those metaphorical tense strings in her. Or maybe they won’t snap. Maybe she’ll grab a bow and maybe they’ll just fucking sing. This is her last chance. If she loses it, she just _knows_ she’d’ve just let something that’s too damn important slip right past her. She might regret it for years to come. Maybe the rest of her life. She’s going to think about this all the time, and maybe she’ll forget for a while, but then it’ll always just crop up again amidst all her accumulated regrets late at night when she’s getting too deep in her own head, and…

She recalls a jacket she bought on impulse when she was a fresh-faced adult with a less-than-wholly-responsible grasp on money. God, it had looked so cool in the mirror when she was trying it on in the shop. So she bought it. Put it in her closet. And then it sat there because she never bothered to try to assemble an outfit for it that was just a little more out there, a little more of a risk than what she was used to, and she just didn’t wear it until she stopped fitting it anyway and then it was money wasted. It was absolutely not worth what she’d blown to buy it, and having that regret plastered in the back of her mind like a big mental mural of her stupidity has served to almost single handedly manage every purchase she made ever since. By now, she should know better. 

But she takes one look at Phil and she knows she’s fucking right this time. This isn’t a jacket. This isn’t a rollercoaster ticket. This isn’t a restaurant bill. She’s not going to get something so beautiful so clearly laid out before her like this again. Rita _refuses_ to call it love just yet; people don’t fall in love in one day. But she needs to take this.

She needs to silence the whole house and win the auction in one fell swoop. She charges to the center of the room, holds up her whole wallet and says, _“Three hundred and thirty-nine dollars and eighty-eight cents!”_

Everyone goes quiet.

Good.

Her eyes meet his. They’re surprised. Struck, but delicately. Discreetly. Maybe knowingly.

“Miss, you do understand you’re not actually buying this person?” Buster jokes slowly, as he approaches her.

Rita goes red in the face. It’s a joke made in good spirits, but this exactly the kind of attention that she feared, and yet she can’t fully care because she fucking grabbed this opportunity and won. Thankfully Buster has the grace to cut the silence and just call down Phil for the dance. He puts a big sun-and-snowflake pendant over her neck, and she sees the woman singing from earlier put one over Phil’s, apparently denoting the two of them as partners for the night. Maybe she’s a little too sappy in that she likes having such a physical symbol for just the two of them. _(Fuck, Rita, come on. How about we give it a month? Take him to dinner first.)_

Phil smiles at her so softly and takes her hand.

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s not the astounding level of good deeds he’s done in one day that makes him remarkable.

Don’t get her wrong. Like, yeah, it was really cool of Phil to go running around town doing nice things, but she can’t fall in love with that by itself. A man like that is just an unachievable Superman mannequin. It’s shining armor with no knight inside.

What made her bid four hundred dollars was the Fibonacci. The boots. The thoughtfulness of him getting her lunch, and that he thought it was an important enough stop to make on his day-long sidequest run. How content he seems to just exist here, and his weird bitingly sarcastic awkward shyness (She can see it. Despite all his smarm and weatherman confidence, Phil Connors is actually a little _shy_ —imagine that! Or maybe he’s just nervous around her. That’s cute too), the charming way he makes all these hand gestures while he talks, the fact that he decided to take her around town instead of leave it at the dance, and the way he narrates all the small town sights with a brand of humor that makes her laugh, combined with an actual genuine appreciation for everything he sees. How he prattles off passionate and meaningless facts about it all like some nerd, and how much she loves that. 

Maybe this is temporary. She can't expect perfection. Maybe he's just being nice ( _really, really nice_ ), maybe after tonight there'll be nothing and they'll be through and they'll just go back to the station, go back to work, and everything will go back to normal, and at least she'll have the memory of this day. But maybe not. Maybe there's more to it than that if he didn't stop at the dance. If he seems so intent on spending the rest of the night with her.

Phil pulls her up to the observation deck that overlooks the entire town of Punxsutawney, framed by endless woods of pine and a sky overhead that’s mounted with stars and a bright full moon, where the clouds had broken after the sun had set. It won’t last; the blizzard donut is on the move, but for now, she can appreciate the scenery. Punx is a small town and its curbs are lined with week-old slush, but that doesn’t mean the view isn’t lovely. The street lights burn warm in the winter night.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Phil says, and gestures over the railing. “This is the observation deck, so just soak in the view.” He starts pointing at various things. “Uh… eighteen wheeler parked right over there, um, public toilets…”

“Oh, sweet,” Rita laughs. Very nice for a first date (or whatever this is).

“Guy vomiting.”

Rita peers over at the treeline, following his gaze. “No he isn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, right over there!” Phil points again and leans over her shoulder.

Oh no. She recoils. “ _Eugh.”_

_“Go Penn State!”_ shouts the vomiting man, and all Rita can do is follow Phil’s lead in pumping a fist in half-hearted enthusiasm, just as a nicety. Go Penn State, she guesses.

“Very romantic,” she remarks.

Phil smiles and puts a hand on his chest for a moment, waffling a bit on his feet. “Yeah, well… I wanted you to get your money’s worth, so.”

And just then, Rita notices the town’s bell tower chiming. Snow from the blizzard that’d been surrounding the town start to fall as the storm moves, finally passing over Punx. They both look up. The flurries dance their way down to earth, catching the lamplight, silent as they tilt and spin and go to coat Punxsutawney in a one white, and Rita can’t help but be awed by the beauty; the snow and the chimes are a perfect touch, one last piece to bring this entire moment together, and she’s just… _so…_

Soon there would be so many that air would be suffocating with them, but for now they only decorated the space between earth and sky. Each flake bounded to its crystal structure yet infinite in its individuality, in its choice of where to fall, in its path from the sky.

“No way,” she breathes. “Aw… that’s… really really nice.” (She’ll keep the poetics to herself.)

Phil casts his gaze over the town. Looking up at him, it’s a perfect scene: the orange light of the street lamps glowing on his face, underscored with sleepy blue moonlight. Chimes ringing in the distance. Flurries catching all over him. She wonders if weathermen could possibly be built for being in weather, like gods and their domains. Maybe Phil is built for snow. It’s too perfect on his shoulders, in his hair. In his eyes.

Rita thinks. They all told her he would be an asshole.

“It is beautiful,” Phil says, momentarily wistful. “Though it’s not entirely unexpected, because with this low pressure from the south, the western—”

She grabs his face and kisses him.


End file.
